


Hoping For Snow

by chooken



Series: 12 Days of Westlife [9]
Category: Westlife
Genre: Awkward Romance, Extramarital Affairs, Feelings, First Time, Fucking, Guilt, Long-Term Relationship(s), Love Bites, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Post-Band, Reminiscing, Sneaking Out, Unrequited Love, Waiting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-21
Updated: 2016-12-21
Packaged: 2018-09-10 20:10:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,917
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8937460
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chooken/pseuds/chooken
Summary: On the same date every year, in the same hotel room, Mark and Nicky spent the night together.Now the band is over, and Mark waits.Inspired by Hoping for Snow by The Vamps





	

After everything, Mark supposed, maybe it was silly to have his hopes up.

The hotel room was beautiful. It was always beautiful. It had been a while since he'd stayed in a place like this, but then it had been a while since he'd done a lot of things. Maybe the bubble hadn't always been perfect, but on the twenty-third of June it had finally burst, in a haze of pyrotechnics, applause, and tears. They'd stepped off the stage, into a waiting van, and that had just been...

...it.

Not that life was bad, now. But six months later his head was finally starting to tick into the concept that this wasn't just a holiday. Not just a hiatus. That he wasn't enjoying some time off before he was shunted back onto a bus again, squashed up with three other people, their families, the entourage and crew and all the hangers-on.

Now it was just him on his own.

But they'd done this every year. Even when they'd been on break, Nicky had come. A tradition, maybe, some small concession to the fact that neither of them were perfect, that maybe the best time was when the haze of snow and holly and candles was thickest, because at Christmas things were a little less real. Because once the snow melted, you could pretend it was forgotten until next time.

Fourteen years, fourteen Christmases. Thirteen, if Nicky didn't come. Fifteen, if he came next year, though Mark didn't think he would. Didn't know if he'd come himself, or if this was the last hurrah. The one unfinished thing. The last hatchet to bury before they called it done.

His overnight bag was stowed in the wardrobe, out of the way. He felt, almost, like he wasn't even here. Like if he didn't touch anything, take up too much space, he could leave if it all fell through. Pretend it had never happened, like he'd just drifted through and out the other side.

He wanted not to think that it would hurt.

It was late. Puddles on the ground outside when he'd come in. He watched miserable sleet fall past the windows, not even close to the snow they'd been reporting all week. The street below was tiled with the canopies of umbrellas, people hurrying through the crowded streets to get their shopping done, four days before Christmas and the last-minute panic setting in.

It had been Nicky's room, once upon a time. Mark had been down the hall. He'd come up for a chat, and when the door had opened Nicky's eyes had been red with scrubbed-away tears.

He'd asked what was wrong. Known, himself, from the horrible lonely twist in the pit of his stomach. Eighteen years old and missing home so much, especially as Christmas Day got closer. They'd gone home for the day, of course, but every phone call to home, every carol, was a reminder that he was missing the whole season, that it was four days until Christmas and they were in London, so far away.

“Do you want a hug?” he'd asked, and Nicky had said yeah, please, and the door had closed behind him. Nicky had heaved a sob into his shoulder, Mark had kissed his hair, and by the time Nicky had raised his head to meet it Mark knew they were about to make a horrible mistake.

They had. Over and over again. Not talking. Not about what they were doing, anyway. It hadn't been how he'd pictured his first time with a boy, hadn't even considered having one, particularly. It was just a phase.

But god, rough and clawing and feeling completely terrified. His hands had felt fumbling and unsure, but when Nicky had arched into him and gasped his name it hadn't mattered. Hard kisses, Nicky whimpering his way to a release, Mark not far behind when a hand had grabbed his arse and _yanked_ , burying him so deep he never wanted to find his way back out.

He'd left before Nicky had woken. The next day Nicky had come down to breakfast, walking a little stiffly, and given him a questioning smile. Mark had nodded back, seen blue eyes sparkle, and had spent the rest of the meal trying not to grin into his eggs.

He'd expected things to change. Expected _them_ to change. Georgina knew, Mark could tell, but it didn't seem to matter. It had just been a one time thing, a bit of comfort, and by New Year everything was back to normal. By March he'd practically stopped thinking about it, wondered if maybe he'd dreamed it.

The following Christmas Nicky had slipped a room key into his hand while they'd been having a bite after an interview promoting their first album, a note with _TONIGHT_ printed neatly across it. It wasn't for the hotel they were staying in, and it took a few minutes for Mark to realise. He'd caught a cab just after sunset, and when he'd reached the room Nicky had been sitting on the bed.

They'd stared at each other. Nicky had looked like he wanted to say something, wanted to explain himself, like maybe Mark didn't get why they were here, like Mark had forgotten.

He hadn't forgotten.

It had been slow, that time. Not romantic, never romantic, but Nicky had been sweet. Was always sweet. Mark had felt vulnerable, been more nervous than he would have ever admitted, but Nicky had touched him carefully, opened him up, and even though it had hurt Mark had never regretted it. Not with the memory of blue eyes catching his, watching him earnestly while they'd rocked slowly to the edge, his legs around Nicky's waist and reverent kisses beginning to tremble when Nicky shuddered to his climax.

Nicky had wiped him down slowly, made sure he was okay. Mark had wanted to cry, a bit, but not because of the pain. He'd clung to Nicky for a long time, let Nicky hold him, and when he'd woken a few hours later Nicky had been gone.

The next year had been mad. If the first album had been manic, the lead-up to the second one was even worse. He'd thought it was crazy before, but when he'd been singing with Mariah Carey, and having to talk on just about every TV show going, he'd wondered if maybe he'd hit his head at some point and was making all of it up. They broke a record. Then another one. Bryan announced he and Kerry were expecting.

Four days before Christmas, Mark had been eating dinner with some friends in Dublin when he'd gotten a text message.

He'd been climbing on a plane within two hours, opening the door within four. The bath had been running in the other room, and when he'd gone in Nicky had been grinning cheekily up at him, the bubbles not hiding much at all.

The next year he'd made it to the room first. Nicky had booked it. Always booked it. Mark had wanted to ask, once, whether he organised it every year or if he had some sort of standing arrangement with the hotel. He hadn't asked, though. It wasn't something they talked about. Had ever talked about. There was no point, not when they both knew that tugging on a single thread would unravel the whole thing.

He'd lit a few candles while waiting. It had felt stupid, like trying clumsily to be romantic, so he'd blown them all out again. When Nicky had arrived Mark had gotten a grin, and then a hug. When Nicky had gone to change into something more comfortable, Mark had lit all the candles again, but not finished in time. Nicky had come out to find the room half-lit, Mark swearing at one that kept going out, and quickly helped him light the rest.

They'd gone for hours. Nicky had been beautiful, sweat glowing in the candle-light while they'd taken each other slowly, Nicky's fingers mapping his skin, Mark tasting every inch of him.

The fifth year had been just after the Greatest Hits had come out. People asked if they were going to break up. Everybody laughed and said no. Nicky and Georgina got married, and they all got a bit of a day out in France. Mark wondered if maybe he'd feel something for it, some sort of jealousy, but instead all he'd felt was glad for Nicky, grinning from ear to ear.

Four days before Christmas she'd dropped him off at the hotel. Mark had been sat on the balcony, drinking a glass of the complimentary champagne the hotel had sent up, and he'd seen the car pull up, seen a flash of blond hair and a bright wave. Five minutes later Nicky accepted a glass of champagne and asked if he'd seen the match earlier that day.

He'd ridden Nicky that night. Hard and fast, hips slamming down, leaving marks on each other. Felt an urgent, possessive need he hadn't expected, when Nicky sat up and met his thrusts beat for beat, crying out into his mouth as they'd gotten closer.

They'd wrapped around each other, kissing slowly until Nicky had fallen asleep, a contented smile on his face.

Mark had snuck out late and driven home, feeling Nicky's fingers still in the bruises on his hip.

Three months later, hours after that god-awful press conference, Nicky had answered the door with tears on his cheeks again. Mark had asked if he was okay. Of course he hadn't been. Okay had been so far in the distance it was irrelevant, though in hindsight Mark knew it had been just a pothole, not the gaping canyon they'd all thought they'd been staring into.

He'd just left Kian's room. He'd been crying too, staring angrily at the floor. Mark had tried to comfort him, but after Shane's sullen silence and the defensive scowls he'd gotten from both of them, he'd thought maybe it was better to spend some time alone, had just been dropping in on Nicky for a last check.

Nicky had stormed around the room for a few minutes, shouting. Not at Mark, or at anything, really. He'd needed to vent, and Mark had understood, had been happy to wait until he calmed down. Then he'd let Nicky sidle into a hug and held him for a long time, feeling a heart beat too fast against his chest.

The kiss had caught him by surprise. He'd sunk into it for a moment, force of habit, but a moment later had been pushing Nicky away, shaking his head.

“We can't.”

Nicky had nodded, and looked away. “Sorry.”

“It's fine.” Nicky's hair had been soft when he'd run his fingers through it. “It's been a shit day.”

“Maybe you should...” Nicky had shuddered out a breath. “Maybe you should go. I don't...” He'd swallowed hard. “I want you. Right now. And I won't...” He'd touched Mark's cheek. “Just Christmas. It doesn't count, then.”

“Would it count now?”

“Yes.” Nicky had studied him slowly. “I promised.”

“Georgina?”

“Her. Myself.” Lips had twitched in a pained grimace. “This can't start. If it starts, it turns into something, and if it turns into something...” He'd stepped away. “Please go.”

Mark had.

That Christmas hadn't even been like fucking. Mark didn't know what it had been. It had felt almost like a date. They'd sat on the balcony, watched the snow drift past, holding hands under the moonlight. Then they'd gone inside to watch television, had sat on the bed in their pyjamas, giggling over some crap sitcom and chatting during the adverts. It had felt like being with Nicky. Like being Nicky's. He'd wondered if this was what it felt like being Georgina, and then pushed that from his mind. It was nothing like being Georgina.

They'd fucked, of course. Mark hadn't known if he was in the mood, suspected he would have been just as happy if they'd spent the night cuddled up and eating room service macaroni and cheese, but there was no question of them not fucking. It was what they'd gone there for. It would have been silly to go for anything else, like admitting fucking wasn't all they were, at least here, four days before Christmas.

A few weeks later he'd met Kevin.

It had been... strange, for a bit. Spending time together, talking about pointless things, making plans to meet and sneaking around, giggling over the phone late at night and getting little texts letting him know he was thought of.

It was embarrassing now, but at the time he'd been suspicious. Had wondered what was going on, exactly. It had taken a few months to realise that this was what a relationship was supposed to look like. Not fucking one day out of a year, being friends the rest of the time, but investing your whole heart in someone. Feeling promise and acknowledgement when you smiled at them. Like, even though they were a secret, it wasn't all they were.

The others had been happy for them. Nicky had hugged him. Mark had hugged back, and felt nothing. Nothing but friendship and support. When they'd come out a few months later he'd still felt nothing. Not for Nicky, anyway, though he supposed he never had. They were friends.

It was around November that he'd caught Nicky looking at him curiously. Tinsel had been going up, the album promotion in full swing, and Mark realised, suddenly, that he had a decision to make. That, somehow, he held all the power.

Kevin had asked what was wrong. They'd been living together, by then, in a flat in London, and if Mark had been acting strange he hadn't realised it. He hadn't known how to explain it. To tell the boy he loved that he and Nicky had this... thing. This thing that didn't feel like sex, didn't feel like romance. Felt somehow, intimately, like a part of what they were. Like the punctuation at the end of every year, something that pinned it all down in a way he hadn't been able to find in anything else.

They'd talked about it. Talked and fucking talked, Mark trying to explain, Kevin trying to understand, but there weren't words for it. Had never been. It was innate, like a sneeze, like trying to stop it only made it worse.

It was five days before Christmas when Kevin had quietly asked if he was going to go.

Mark had said no. Not if Kevin didn't want him to.

Kevin asked if Mark wanted to.

The next evening Mark had climbed into a cab and gone to a hotel in the city.

Nicky hadn't asked if he was sure. Didn't ask about Kevin. Didn't ask about any of it.

Mark took him knelt against the headboard, their hands braced on the wall and Nicky arching back into every thrust with a hoarse growl. Afterwards Nicky had turned around, fallen to the bed on his back, and urged Mark back up again, back in, both of them coming with a shout while Nicky bit bruises into his throat, into his shoulders.

Kevin had ignored the marks. They both had. Two weeks later, when the bruises had finally faded, Kevin had taken him to bed. They hadn't mentioned it again for eleven more months.

Life found a routine. You Raise Me Up had given them a second wind, and they'd toured Australia, all over Asia. They'd turned into a travelling family, with the girls, Kevin, Nicole. Sat up late, playing cards, having a couple of drinks, Nicky and Georgina snuggled up next to each other. They'd been trying for kids, Mark knew. He'd been happy for them, knew they'd be great parents. Kevin got on really well with all the girls, though sometimes Mark would catch himexchanging looks with Georgina, and in the pit of Mark's stomach he'd feel a twist of something almost like shame.

She'd been four months pregnant when Nicky had arrived at the hotel that year. Kevin hadn't asked. He'd come home from a day out shopping and quietly wondered aloud if he should bother making dinner that night, or if Mark would be home late.

They'd run into each other in the lobby. The trip up had been tense. Mark had wondered if they should have taken different lifts. It hadn't felt right, being together outside the room, outside their little bubble, where the world outside had been paused and none of it really mattered.

The twins had come in April. Gorgeous, tiny little things. Mark had watched Nicky cry, worried for his boys until they had been able to come home from the hospital, had tried to comfort him, but in the end it hadn't been Mark's comfort he'd needed.

That Christmas, the boys safe and home and with their mother, they'd made slow, sweet love on the rug on the hotel room floor. Nicky had flipped open his wallet to get a condom and for a moment Mark had seen a picture of two chubby little boys, toothless smiles turned towards their dad.

By the time the next Christmas had come around Mark hadn't seen Nicky for almost six months. The hiatus had been well under way, and Nicky had taken his family to America, had wanted a bit of anonymity and to take some acting classes for a laugh, and because he'd always wanted to. Mark had spent six months enjoying domesticity, hanging out with Kevin and feeling, for the first time in a long time, like a real person. Like he'd discovered life outside the bubble again, with all its little inconveniences and habits. By November he'd been wondering if he even wanted to go. If maybe after all this time the spell had just... broken.

But halfway through December, backstage at a surprise performance on the X Factor, Nicky had walked into the green room.

Their eyes had locked. Nicky had hugged Shane, asked how wee Patrick was coming along, but he'd been watching Mark. Mark had watched him back.

Afterwards they'd all gone for a pint. By the end of dinner Mark had known where he was going to be on the twenty-first.

Nicky had been late. For a heavy, lonely hour, Mark had wondered if maybe he'd been wrong. If he'd misread the whole thing. Then Nicky had barged in, babbling something about traffic, and they'd been on each other before the door had closed.

He'd wanted to stay. Had lain beside Nicky afterwards, propped on one elbow. Watched him sleep, golden eyelashes shifting on high cheekbones, parted lips letting out sated breaths. Had wanted, for a moment, to ask Nicky if this could be it. If they could climb into a car and leave the rest behind. The boyfriend, the wife, the kids, the career. Change their names and fall into each other for the rest of their lives.

Nicky had opened his eyes, then, looked at him sleepily, and Mark had felt it shatter. Seen a gaze that didn't hold any of those things. Realised his own didn't reflect them back. A silly, throwaway fantasy, where things were different. Where _they_ were different.

Nicky had rolled out of bed and gone to the bathroom.

Mark had been gone before he came back out.

When he'd seen Nicky next, at Kian's wedding, they'd shared a friendly smile, the same one they always had. Nicky had hugged him quickly before moving on to Shane. They'd sat next to each other during the ceremony, Kevin on his right and Nicky and Georgina on his left, snuggled up and both of them looking a bit misty through the vows. Kevin had kissed his cheek, and squeezed his hand.

He and Kevin had started to discuss getting married. It had been a good time for them. They hadn't set a date, but it had felt right, like cementing something they'd already decided was going to last. He'd been happy, then. Almost a decade since he'd first slept with a man, and he'd finally started to feel like he'd become himself, like it was something he could do, be secure and happy and love a boy as much as he did.

They'd talked about it, he and Nicky. Nicky had said of course he should, if that was what he wanted to do, that he'd come to the reception and give an embarrassing speech. Mark had laughed, elbowed him, and told him he wasn't invited then.

Two days later he'd been pinned against the suite wall and snogged hard while Nicky tried to shrug out of his winter coat, snowflakes still in his hair.

They hadn't known, at the time, that the next album was going to be their last. Mark would have been lying if he said he hadn't expected it. They were all doing different things by then. Nicky wanted to get into radio, had been doing some hosting gigs, and Shane had the three kids, was looking at settling down, though he had been in a lot of meetings lately, something to do with his real estate side-project. They had been talking about maybe cutting Simon loose, doing another Greatest Hits the next year, and Mark had supposed it was the perfect time, especially as he'd quietly known Kian and Jodi were trying for their first and Kian was getting courted for a judging role on The Voice.

It had been a good time for everyone, as far as he'd known. They had been happy and ready to face what came next.

A month after _Gravity_ was released, Mark had gone to the hotel room to find Nicky stood on the balcony, looking out.

“Hey.” He'd lingered in the doorway. It had been cold out. Not snowing, just clear and crisp, the wind a creeping hand that tugged at his clothes. “Sorry, Kevin's family's round for Christmas.” That had been hard, leaving that. Kevin had helped him make the excuse, that he'd be back late that evening, had a work thing. One of the benefits of the job, he'd supposed. Some celebrity appointment he had to keep. “You okay?”

“What are we doing?” Mark had shrugged. He'd never quite known the answer to that one.

“What do you want me to say?”

“Nothing. Or... I don't know.” He'd turned around, then. He'd been drinking. Mark had wondered how long he'd been there, though he hadn't asked. The only conversation they'd had about this in twelve years, and he hadn't been about to prolong it. “Are you going to sneak out tonight, or am I?”

“Suppose it depends who wakes up first,” Mark had joked awkwardly. He still cringed now, when he thought about it. Nicky had shaken his head, looking away. “We don't have to.”

“You don't believe that.”

“Nobody's making us.” He'd hesitated, hadn't wanted to admit it, but... “I want to.”

“Me too.” Nicky had crossed his arms. “I do,” he'd said softly. “I'm going to have a hot shower. You can join me, if you want.” Mark had waited for him to move, to start walking towards the bathroom. “Have a drink first, okay?”

“Why?”

“Because it'll make me feel better.” Mark had understood. Under the influence, one of those things. He'd never been drunk during, hadn't intended to start. “Why are you so _okay_ about all this?”

“Why are you?” Mark had tilted his head, challenging. “You started it.”

“Did I?” Nicky's broken giggle still haunted him, sometimes. “Who remembers any more. I just...” The step he'd taken forward had been stumbling. Mark had caught him, felt him tremble. Arms had looped tight around his waist, hanging on. “Fuck it. What you want. You want top? I haven't been fucked in the arse in like... two years.” The laugh was still broken. He'd leaned his head in Mark's chest. “It's ending, isn't it?” he'd whispered. “All of it.”

“Maybe,” Mark had allowed. “Not quite yet.”

“How long do you think we're going to do this? You want to do Christmas booty calls when we're ninety? Rolling our walkers into the lift for the seasonal fuckathon?”

He hadn't known. Still didn't, looking at a door that hadn't opened yet, as the minutes ticked the evening away. He'd give it til midnight, he decided. Until the day was officially over, and it was three days until Christmas.

Nicky had gone to have a shower, finally. Mark had heard him throwing up afterwards, heard the toilet flush. When he'd come out he'd had a face like thunder, and Mark had tried to go gentle with him, had seen he was fragile and hadn't known how to help. Gentle hadn't been wanted, though. They'd ended up on the bed, Nicky's legs almost over his head while he'd demanded harder, faster, fucking _fuck_ me, Mark, and Mark had, because he'd been frightened if he didn't that this might spill over. That he'd wake up the next morning with things _wrong_ between them, because Nicky had needed and he hadn't been able to give.

He'd crept out once Nicky had been asleep, though when he'd turned to closed the door behind himself he'd seen blue eyes studying him from the darkness, half-open and searching.

He'd pretended not to see, as the door had shut anyway.

The split had been announced ten months later.

They'd sat in Louis' office as he asked them, for the last time, if they were sure. Looked at each other. Tired eyes and almost twelve years between them, and all nodded slowly.

He'd let them hit the 'post' button on the website, four fingers poised over the enter key. They'd all turned the sound off on their mobiles, had known it was coming, and within thirty seconds there had been four phones vibrating on the table as every social media site went suddenly mad.

Then, a week before Christmas, Kevin had walked out.

Mark had sat at the kitchen table, staring into his hands. Not sure what to do. Not sure what had even happened. Sure that it was a mistake, that he was going to come back. That he had to be coming back.

Three days later he'd been sat on a bed in a London hotel room while Nicky had kissed away his tears and said he was so, so sorry.

It had been... nice, that night. Not enough, though. Not like love, or like comfort. Not like it had been before, a naughty little thing they did on the side. This was like being desperately thirsty and having only an ice-cube to suck, evaporated before it could make a difference. Afterwards Nicky had lain next to him and asked if there was anything he could do. There hadn't been. Still wasn't.

So what Mark thought he was doing here, six months after the end of everything, he couldn't say.

It was just after eleven. He grabbed a beer from the minibar and headed for the balcony. Nicky had booked the room, Nicky always booked the room. Mark wondered if it was just a mistake. Left over from whatever arrangement Nicky had with the hotel.

He wondered if there was no arrangement, if Nicky had booked it on purpose.

His phone buzzed, and he felt his heart leap as he fumbled for it.

It was just a text, though, from a songwriter in America he'd been talking with. He'd decided he was going over for a bit. Spend maybe a year there and get his head straight, try to clear out the cobwebs that the last decade had spun in his head. Start again with something fresh. Something that might actually _work_.

He looked at the beer. Shook his head, and put it down on the balcony table. No. This was ridiculous. A stupid standing arrangement that had nothing to do with him. Not any more.

He exhaled slowly. Tried to breathe Nicky out along with it, fancied he could see him for a moment, a cloud of mist in the air, cooling and drifting away.

He left the beer, grabbed his wallet, and pulled the door open, already stepping out.

“Hey.”

He stared. Nicky stared back. One hand was still reaching for the doorknob Mark had just pulled on, the other scratching nervously at the back of his neck. He looked uncertain, a little harried. A pink tongue darted out to lick bitten lips.

“Er...” Mark looked down at his wallet. “I was just leaving.”

“Oh. Yeah.” Nicky stepped back slightly. “I'm sorry. It's late. I wasn't sure you'd even...” He let out an anxious breath. “I booked it last week, figured what the hell, you know? Then at the last minute I guess I just...” He grimaced. “You came, though.”

“I... yeah.” Mark reached out. Fingers curled carefully into his. Nicky looked older, suddenly. Not like the teenager Mark had met, that he'd always seen Nicky as, for all those years. Maybe that was right, though. Maybe they'd just grown up.

“Can I come in?”

He looked over his shoulder. At a hotel room he'd thought so luxurious and beautiful, back when he'd been a stupid kid with stars in his eyes. When he'd just wanted to sing, and hang out with his friends, and try to pretend.

It wasn't like that. Not any more.

It was time to let go.

“Mark?”

“Come in,” Mark said, regretting the decision already. Nicky smiled.

The door closed behind them, trapping the rest of the world outside.

 


End file.
